


Perpetually Intertwined

by monorunner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After John Left, Depression, Drug Use, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Teenlock, Vulnerable Sherlock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monorunner/pseuds/monorunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The perpetual entanglement between Mycroft and Sherlock. Love and hatred. Hurt and comfort. Before and after. Separate but deeply interwoven stories. A quote every episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Third Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So he leaned over and kissed him. He leaned over and parted his lips, pressed them against Sherlock’s still bleeding ones. Gently, softly. Tremulous and tender.

SHERLOCK: You phoned him.

JOHN: ’Course I bloody phoned him.

MYCROFT: ’Course he bloody did.

—— His Last Vow

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was high again.

Mycroft was burying himself in documents when Anthea came in and said, 'Sir, code red leaves.' He stopped dead. Then he grabbed his umbrella and quickly searched in his mind palace for the last time his brother failed to resist this temptation, looking for possible reasons for this time simultaneously. It took him less than a second. It had been 23 months. It must be John.

Twenty minutes later Mycroft found his delirious brother arguing with a butcher. Another twenty minutes and they were back at 221B Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson burst into tears when she saw Sherlock with his face swollen and lips bleeding. Mycroft left Anthea downstairs to soothe her and carried Sherlock upstairs. He seated Sherlock on the sofa and perched next to him.

Sherlock was babbling, irritated and disgruntled, waving his hands in the air. 'You ruined everything Mycroft! I was just about to find out where he hid his daughter. He has two mistresses and he... Hey! What do you think you're doing!' Sherlock snapped when Mycroft leaned forward and started cleaning his face with his handkerchief, flinching to avoid further contact.

‘You are a mess.’ Mycroft let his hand fall, ‘Go take a shower.’

Still grunting, Sherlock rose to his feet and headed towards the bathroom. Mycroft stood up with him and suddenly noticed one of John’s jumpers on his empty chair in front of the mantelpiece.

He shouldn’t have said that, but the words came out unbidden, ‘I told you Sherlock, don’t get involved.’

Sherlock turned around immediately, ‘I’m not involved!’ His voice was shaky, ’Mycroft I’m not a …’ He broke off as Mycroft suddenly closed their distance and embraced him tightly.

It shouldn’t be like this. It was wrong. Mycroft felt a lump in his throat as he saw tears welling up in Sherlock’s blue eyes.

‘I’m sorry. Sherlock, I’m so sorry.’ He apologized, ‘Sorry I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me.’ He said into his brother’s ear.

It was wrong, Sherlock’s voice. It was all wrong. Mycroft sensed it immediately. He knew that his little brother was truly and deeply distressed, that he needed love, right here and now. He knew. Of course he did.

‘...child anymore.’ Sherlock finished, choking a bit. The moment Mycroft hugged him, Sherlock started sobbing. He couldn’t control it anymore, not when he was wrapped in another person’s body warmth, his brother’s warmth. He was shaking.

Mycroft stroked his messy hair gently and, like he did thirty years ago when Sherlock was trapped in his own nightmares, he said softly, ‘It’s alright Sherlock. It’s alright. I’m here. I’ve got you.’ He held him tighter, patting his back gently, very gently.

Sherlock said nothing more. He let his tears fall onto Mycroft’s shoulder.

Minutes later they parted. Mycroft wiped the teardrops off his brother’s pale face. ‘It’s okay now, Sherlock. It’s alright. Take a shower and go to bed, okay?’ Sherlock nodded and slightly bit his bottom lip. He looked at Mycroft with such vulnerability as if he was begging him not to leave.

Mycroft couldn’t bear it anymore. Mycroft Holmes, the icy, unfeeling, aloof Mycroft Holmes, whose emotions run even deeper than those of a consulting detective, who knew far too well that love was a disadvantage, who managed to dismiss all his sentiments with ease, suddenly couldn’t bear it anymore. No, not when his little brother was looking at him like this.

So he leaned over and kissed him. He leaned over and parted his lips, pressed them against Sherlock’s still bleeding ones. Gently, softly. Tremulous and tender.

Sherlock didn’t expect this but he didn’t wince either. He kissed back and he pulled Mycroft closer.

Oh Sherlock. He called his name silently, and Sherlock heard him. But he wouldn’t remember. Mycroft knew this. Sherlock wouldn’t remember anything when he became sober again. He knew because this was not the first time his brother got high. He knew because this was not the first time he kissed him like this. He would never tell him though. He was certainly not telling him that this was actually the third time he had done it - although it wasn’t their third kiss. So Mycroft indulged himself, biting and licking, making Sherlock breathless.

 

He stayed in Sherlock’s room until four, watching his sleeping brother and worrying about him. He wanted to stay longer but Sherlock could wake up any minute now so he had to leave. Sherlock would not want to see him when he woke up. He kissed his brother’s forehead, stroked his curls and murmured, ‘I love you Sherlock.’

He removed John’s chair before leaving, hoping it would help, but he didn’t know.

It would happen again of course. John would soon find out and he would contact him. But Mycroft was not going to tell John. What could he say after all? It was not his position to tell John that he had broken Sherlock’s heart by leaving him alone in this flat, in his mind and in this world, after he had showed him what it was like when there were two of them.

In this situation, and probably this situation only where his brother was involved, Mycroft felt powerless. He had been loving Sherlock for so long, protecting him for so long, but he didn’t know what he could do this time.

 

‘Is everything alright, sir?’ Anthea asked as Mycroft went down the stairs.

Mycroft nodded without saying a word and walked out into the early morning. He shut the door behind him and Sherlock opened his eyes, touching his bottom lip and murmured, ‘Mycroft.’

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you really think Mycroft needs John to phone him to know Sherlock is high? Nah, he's Mycroft.
> 
> Comments are love!


	2. Mycroft Has a File

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was one of those nights when Sherlock slept in Mycroft’s arms. It was one of countless times when Sherlock felt truly loved and deeply doted on by his brother. It was once upon a time when they were in love, sweet and fond, and believed they would be like this forever.

 

MRS HUDSON: Your mother has a lot to answer for.

SHERLOCK: Mm, I know. I have a list. Mycroft has a file.

—— The Sign of Three

 

* * *

 

 

_Entry 118_

_Date:  April 29th, 1993_

_Place: Flat, London_

_Incident: Visited for the first time. Confiscated all my cigarettes. Brought me homemade muffins and therefore thwarted my diet._

 

_Entry 117_

_Date: Jan 6th, 1993_

_Place: Home_

_Incident: Sequestered my birthday gift to Sherlock, saying an expert set of dissection paraphernalia was not a proper gift to a 17-year-old._

 

It was one of those nights when Sherlock stayed over at Mycroft’s flat.

He sat on the bed under the duvet, reading the file he just spotted in Mycroft’s nightstand, his hand flicking through the familiar handwriting.

The sound of the water in the bathroom stopped four minutes ago, so he still had one minute and a half before he had to put it back and pretend he had never seen it. Not that his incessant curiosity about his brother’s belongings would rankle that doting man. No, Sherlock just wanted to ensure his future accessibility to this file, precluding the possibility that Mycroft would hide it away or even stop writing if he knew he had read it.

Sherlock was quite familiar with most of the incidents after his birth. He was very intrigued to know what crime Mycroft indicted Mummy for before he was born though. There was a label in the middle - presumably the second half of the file was a comprehensive appendix with all the details he wanted to know, so he flipped through it to the end.

 

_Entry 1_

_Date: Dec 24th, 1979_

_Place: Garden_

_Name: Daniel Greenwood_

_Incident: Daniel Greenwood, male, 14 at the time, intimidated Sherlock by threats because Sherlock corrected his spelling on the Christmas banner he painted. He knocked him down and tried to beat him. Sherlock cried._

_Status: One month strict curfew. Because he ‘broke 18 windows in the neighbourhood and refused to confess’. Jan/29/1980_

 

Sherlock frowned in confusion. What was this? This wasn’t about Mummy anymore - it was a separate file. An idea was dawning on him but his hand didn’t stop, flipping back some twenty pages.

 

_Entry 30_

_Date: Mar 10th, 1983_

_Place: School_

_Name: Charles Lynch; Philip Coyne; Edward Morrison_

_Incident: Charles Lynch, Philip Coyne and Edward Morrison, male, 9 at the time, bullied Sherlock because he deduced their cheating practice and reported to their teacher. Sherlock bled._

_Status: Suspended from school. Mar/18/1983_

 

It was the journal about him, he realised, Mycroft had been keeping a journal about the people who did harm to him. The information came without warning and Sherlock was so daunted he failed to process it. His heartbeat quickened, and he could not help but keep reading, waiting for his buzzing brain to catch up and make sense of it.

 

_Entry 88_

_Date: Apr 12th, 1989_

_Place: Scotland Yard_

_Name: Sergeant Alice Edmondson_

_Incident: Sherlock went to the Yard to report dubious evidences about the Carl Powers case…_

 

“Sherlock.” The door opened and Sherlock nearly jumped at Mycroft’s voice. He looked up, seeing Mycroft in his white dressing gown.

The tall figure froze for a second, clearly knowing everything instantaneously, but being the man he was, Mycroft rallied quickly, quirking a brow at his topless brother on the bed.

“You broke all the windows and planted it on Daniel Greenwood when you were 10?” Sherlock asked, in a tentative manner.

Mycroft walked to the bed quietly and tucked himself into the duvet. Sherlock’s eyes followed him but Mycroft’s facial expression was something he couldn’t decipher - or maybe he could have unravelled it if his brain had been functioning at its full capacity.

“Yes.” Mycroft said succinctly, turning so that they were face to face.

Sherlock stared at his big brother. He didn’t know what to think, which was very uncommon for him. Mycroft had always been protective of course, and more than often over protective, but Sherlock never imagined he would literally see to every single man who had hurt him and record every incident, which was quite a lot given Sherlock being the maverick he was. He knew his brother was doing well in the government even though he just graduated two years ago, so it was not hard to trace these people and take them down for him now, but as early as when he was ten…

He stared at his brother, whose shoulders were broad and eyes sharp and boring into him, whose chest was now rising and falling visibly, whose hand was… extending and running through his hair and…

Mycroft pulled Sherlock closer to rest their foreheads together, his right hand caressing Sherlock’s ear gently, which had become very hot very quickly, and he breathed in a low, soothing voice, “I will always protect you Sherlock, always. I love you so. As for those who are fatuous enough to lay their finger on you while I’m not around, the consequences would be very, very grievous.” His voice became even lower as he spoke, bouncing off in Sherlock’s head and stopping his heart.

Sherlock was finding it hard to reconcile the Mycroft who wrote the journal in such a narrative and nonchalant fashion and the one in front of him, who had just declared his love for him once again with all those emotive words - which was ridiculous, because he had always talked to him like this when they were lying next to each other in the same bed every couple of weeks.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and he swallowed. It took him an unbelievable six seconds to let his voice out, “Stop fucking my mind and kiss me.” He managed.

Mycroft was only too willing to comply. He closed the last few inches between them and pressed their lips together. Sherlock placed his palm at the back of his brother’s neck, exerting a little pressure to encourage him to kiss harder. Mycroft understood. Of course he did. He licked Sherlock’s bottom lip with the tip of his tongue and bit it, then thrust right into his mouth and brushed against Sherlock’s waiting tongue.

Sherlock moaned softly, tasting the unique flavor of his brother hungrily and sucking in eagerly, tightening his mouth to give his brother’s tongue more contact and pressure, until Mycroft groaned and couldn’t poke in any deeper, hot breath against his face.

Sherlock pulled away, “You possessive over-protective bastard.” He said between kisses, “I’m not your belonging.” He bit his brother’s lip hard, claiming him.

“It’s hardly your place to say.” Mycroft said with a smile, his thumb brushing over Sherlock’s lips, “You are mine.” He paused, placing a proprietorial kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, “And I’m yours.”

Heart pounding at his chest, Sherlock ripped off Mycroft’s dressing gown as Mycroft climbed over him. _Yes I am. And yes you are._ Sherlock confirmed by pulling him down with categorical covetousness. He parted his lips and simply took.

 

It was one of those nights when Sherlock slept in Mycroft’s arms. It was one of countless times when Sherlock felt truly loved and deeply doted on by his brother. It was once upon a time when they were in love, sweet and fond, and believed they would be like this forever.

The list would go on. It would see bullies, criminals and psychopaths. One day Mycroft would put his own name on it for hurting the most precious person to him in this world. And the list would still go on. There would be Golem; there would be Moriarty and his bloody snipers; there would be that Serbian moron who had the gall to torture his brother. Mycroft would update their status with ‘dead’ or ‘dealt with’. But he wouldn’t be able to write down anything for his own status. He would always know it though, the price he had to pay for breaking his brother’s heart. It would be to love and protect Sherlock forever, no matter what would happen, or who would appear, or how much Sherlock would hate him, or how painful and heartbreaking it would be.


	3. Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes he had deleted all of it. Well, he supposed he had because it was the only explanation why he couldn’t remember much between them since he was fifteen. It was a deduction by himself about himself, because he believed he had even deleted why he had chosen to delete. At least he thought so, but then he was thirty-five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating goes M.

SHERLOCK: Let’s do deductions. Client left this while I was out. What d’you reckon?

MYCROFT: I’m busy.

SHERLOCK: Oh, go on. It’s been an age.

MYCROFT: I always win.

SHERLOCK: Which is why you can’t resist.

—— The Empty Hearse

* * *

 

 

 

“Let’s do deductions.”

“De-duc-tions?”

“Yes. Tell me what you see from my hand.”

Sherlock was confused, but confusion never dampened his curiosity, as Mycroft’s conundrums never failed to tantalise, so he held his brother’s hand in place with both of his own small hands and stared at it with ardent interest, trying to deduce what ‘deduction’ means - Mycroft was teaching him a new word with a challenge, and this was Sherlock’s favourite.

“It’s clean and a bit wet.”

“Good. Why is that?”

“You just washed it.”

Mycroft smiled, “Yes. And why did I want to wash my hand?”

Sherlock didn’t even think, “Because it was dirty.”

Mycroft nodded his confirmation, “Good Sherlock, this is an example of deduction. You can extrapolate, or know things that are...” His other hand extended to pat Sherlock on his head, but was immediately caught by a smaller, chubby one. “But there’s still a fading ink mark on this one.” Sherlock interrupted, contemplating.

He didn’t look up to Mycroft who was a good 20 inches taller than him, “So you didn’t pay much attention to your left hand when you were washing.” He said after two seconds.

He aligned both hands in front of him and sniffed each one, “Your left hand smells like soap even though you didn’t wash it very carefully, but there’s some other smell on your right hand. So...” His cherry lips pouted a bit, “You were doing something with your right hand, something that gave you the smell.” He sniffed again and then frowned in frustration, “I don’t know what it is Mycroft.” He looked up this time, big sapphire eyes bearing a hint of timidity like a lagoon stirred by zephyr, “Sorry Mycroft, I don’t know what this smell is.” He said quietly.

Mycroft failed to reply, partly because he didn’t think to prepare a pretense, partly because he was well startled. He had always known that Sherlock was a prodigy, much like he himself, but he never expected him to so naturally and precisely go through the process of deduction even before knowing the name of this scientific method. Clearly this process was not new to him.

“Mycroft? Are you angry?” Sherlock asked tentatively after a good ten seconds of silence, fearing that he had disappointed his brother.

“No Sherlock, you did very well.” Mycroft replied hastily, kneeling so that they were eye to eye, “Very well indeed.” He petted Sherlock, who relaxed at his words, but then as always, he never let go. “What is this smell Mycroft?” He asked.

“It’s nothing special, just Mummy’s cosmetics. I was helping her.” Mycroft said guiltily in a not-so-convincing tone. After all, he couldn’t tell Sherlock it was lube, and it was definitely too early for him to know what masturbation was.

Mycroft, knowing his brother’s inquisitive proclivity too well, didn’t give him much time to think on it, “Do you understand what deduction means now?”

Sherlock nodded and won a kiss on his cheek. He was five.

 

“Mycroft, let’s play deductions.” Sherlock’s voice whirled down from the stairs.

“I laud your courage Sherlock. I believe we are now at 326:29?” Mycroft was at his desk when Sherlock came into his room, not diverting his attention from _The Dynamics of Combustion_ at hand.

“I will catch up.” Sherlock gritted his teeth, mentally throwing the scoreboards as far away as he could.

“I can’t wait.” Mycroft teased. He put the book down, grabbed his coat and went out with Sherlock.

After a three hours’ field trip of observing and deducing, they were back at home.

“Obviously that woman was from South America Sherlock. It was a Spanish accent, not an Indian one. Listen to the ‘r’ she pronounced.”

Sitting on the floor, Sherlock stroked Redbeard’s fur in a sullen manner, “A Spanish accent doesn’t mean South America.” He said stubbornly.

Mycroft smirked, “She was wearing a chullo, commonly seen in the area of the Andes. It’s made of alpaca.” He explained, “Some study in natural fibres would be your boon.”

Sherlock agreed reluctantly, taking a mental note to conduct a comprehensive study on the subject later on - needn’t be too comprehensive, knowing more than Mycroft would do.

“And that leads us to 335:30.” Mycroft continued, “You stupid little boy.”

“I’m not stupid!” Sherlock retorted immediately, pretty face alight with adorable fury, off which Mycroft could not keep his eyes.

Of course he was not. Who could know better than Mycroft? But he just loved to see his vigorous, feisty and disputatious little brother vibrant with rebellion, only too ready to argue at any time. And he knew better. He knew how much Sherlock craved for attention and praise, and how failing to get them would give his insatiable mind the best incentives to absorb and learn even more and faster. He meant it when he said he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait for Sherlock’s mental acuity to close the gap of seven years between them.

Sherlock didn’t know any of this. He was ten.

 

Then he was fifteen. Nothing.

He was twenty. Still nothing.

He was twenty-five and everything was a blur.

 

Then he was thirty, dusty, messy, in custody, caught red-handed dealing with cocaine by some Sergeant Lestrade, to whom he must give credit - managing to catch him was not something a pedestrian cop could do.

“Sherlock.”

He didn’t stir. The voice was familiar and strange at the same time, waking his numb nerve endings.

“Where have you been?”

Yes, it was Mycroft’s voice. He hadn’t heard it for at least...

“Sherlock talk to me. Where have you been for the last two years?”

Yes, two years. It had been two years. From Mycroft’s voice he could discern anger, agitation and…

“Do you have any idea how much you have worried Mummy?”

Yes, and worry. But he was just worrying that he had worried Mummy. It was not like he himself...

“And me?”

Sherlock turned around at the word, facing his brother for the first time in two years, scanning him before asking in a rather arched tone, “You?”

Mycroft didn’t reply. He was quite taken aback by Sherlock’s aged face, cold eyes and husky voice, which did not accord with the young, eager and robust one in his memory at all. He took a step closer and scrutinised his brother, deducing him until his eyes widened at the conclusion and he asked, “Who was Vincent Welch?”

“No idea.” Sherlock replied, his face blank.

Silence.

Mycroft’s heart twitched as the words infused glacial ices into his blood, coldness flowing in his veins and freezing his nerves but endings, failing to numb his aching fingertips. He felt enervated and he had to make extra effort in order to let his voice out. “So you did delete it.” He said eventually, struggling to make his voice as even as possible, “Everything happened between us during the last fifteen years, you deleted it.” He swallowed.

“I believe that’s 1319.” Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off his brother since they were first set on him.

“I’m sorry what?” Mycroft asked, his head spinning but not functioning.

“Our scores, Mycroft.” Sherlock called his brother’s name to his face for the first time in two years and it made Mycroft even dizzier, “You are slipping, brother mine. Since you failed to get this one, I am now at...”

“1277.” Mycroft finished. He would never forget.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes with fleeting hesitation before he said “Exactly.” He turned away.

Yes he had deleted all of it. Well, he supposed he had because it was the only explanation why he couldn’t remember much between them since he was fifteen. It was a deduction by himself about himself, because he believed he had even deleted why he had chosen to delete. At least he thought so, but then he was thirty-five.

 

He was thirty-five and he was dead, officially. He should have been electrified. Why wouldn’t he? He had pulled off a genius magic trick and waiting in front of him was a vast intricate criminal web to be dismantled. They were all visible, excitements and thrills and all the stimuli he yearned for and couldn’t live without, all so visible and reachable. But oddly enough he felt something unbefitting of the prospect, something he wouldn’t have believed he could still feel. Then the unbecoming emotions became too much for a sociopath to handle that starless night after he had seen John at his gravestone and listened to his ‘speech’. For a brief unexplainable moment he didn’t give a damn about Mori-bloody-arty or his delightful criminal web, and just wanted to go back to Baker Street and… and that was just unacceptable.

He couldn’t handle this. The solution was simple.

He ran amok in London that night, saying goodbye to the city he loved so much, cocaine dense in his blood and restoring his usual apathetic and unflappable self. He felt good, glorious, fantastic, incandescent. But he didn’t remember much.

He didn’t remember much until he found himself in Mycroft’s flat. Why had he gone there? He couldn’t make any sense of it. Why was Mycroft wearing a face like this? He had never seen Mycroft so forlorn. And then suddenly he realised Mycroft was kissing him and whispering in an undoubtedly melancholy voice that he didn’t want him to leave again, that he was sorry, that he loved him. And he heard “Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock...” over and over again. Never before had he heard Mycroft call him like this. No, but it was familiar. Mycroft’s voice. His name. His name being called out by his brother. Breathlessly and repeatedly.  

That didn’t make any sense at all, unless…

And he remembered. All of a sudden there was a heavy thud, as something dropped onto the ground of his mind palace. It came from somewhere distant, somewhere deep down. He traced the sound and found a lock lying on the marble floor. He walked closer and picked it up before raising his head to examine the unlocked door. What was this room for? Why couldn’t he remember? It didn’t make any sense, any teensy little bit sense at all. How could he not remember something that existed in his mind palace?

He pushed the door open and walked in, rather cautiously - it wasn’t a usual situation after all. Occasions did happen where he got lost in his own mind palace, but that was ages ago. He took a few paces and found that he was mistaken - it wasn’t a single room, but a separate mansion, decorated long corridors traversing one another, engraved artifacts and fine furniture sitting everywhere, pictures, voices, scents and other memory fragments swirling about the space.

He was dazzled. He saw himself sitting on Mycroft’s laps, toying with his tie, waiting to be fed. He saw himself curling cozily in his brother’s long arms, hot breath blowing against the nape of his neck. He saw how he stole kisses from the possessive man deep in sleep, and how he moaned under his scented body.

And realisations struck on him. He imploded. He should have known. How could he have remembered their scores if he had really deleted everything? The scores and their past were inextricable - he couldn’t have eradicated one while still maintaining the other. He remembered he said ‘this one is special Mycroft, it was lube’ when he was fifteen and had his 200th win against his brother.

 

He was fifteen and he said, “This one is special Mycroft. It was lube.”

Mycroft frowned as he closed the door of the flat, “What are you doing here Sherlock? I already told you...”

“It was lube, wasn’t it? That smell on your right hand when you first taught me deduction.” He bored into his brother, taking in every detail from his squeezing hand to dilated pupils, “You were masturbating.”

“What has brought this up?” asked Mycroft.

“Remember? I am building my mind palace. Backtracking. I’m now at five years old.”

“I see. You are quite right. I was.” He admitted, his nonchalant voice devoid of any signs of embarrassment or awkwardness.

“Then I’m at 200.”

Mycroft smiled and headed towards his room, “You’d better come into my room Sherlock. Vincent will be back in exactly seven minutes.”

Sherlock followed him, “I don’t like him Mycroft. Look at his door knob.”

“Save your deductions for later. He’s my roommate and you’re not going to speak evil of him in this flat...”

“Don’t pretend you care, Mycroft.” He huffed, and then changed the subject as he sat on Mycroft’s bed, “I have a present for you.”

Mycroft raised a brow, “What for?”

“Graduation.”

“That’s still two months away.”

Sherlock shrugged and took out a bottle, placing it on the well-made bed.

“Ah.” Mycroft raised the other brow, looking askance at the lube.

“It’s only part of it.” Sherlock looked smug, apparently appreciating Mycroft’s reaction.

Mycroft was usually not easily surprised, except when his brother was concerned. “What’s the rest then?”

Sherlock stood up, raising his chin in a cocky manner, although he was now only two inches shorter than Mycroft. Something in his eyes made Mycroft alert and he straightened up.

“Me.” Sherlock said.

Mycroft furrowed his brows, “I don’t understand.”

“That was a moment.” Sherlock mocked, but didn’t ridicule him further, instead his face adopted a somewhat serious look. He walked closer, locking their eyes, and even closer, so close that Mycroft had to step back to compensate until his back hit the wall, and Sherlock’s arms extended to corner him. Then he said, slowly and clearly, word by word, “I want you to fuck me.”

Mycroft actually blinked, six times in four seconds.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” He queried half-heartedly.

“You know it isn’t.” Sherlock leaned forward, their faces so close he could distinguish different tints of his brother’s eyes, “I want you Mycroft.”

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“No.” Mycroft managed eventually, “We are brothers Sherlock.” Sherlock huffed but Mycroft didn’t give him the chance to speak, “And even if we weren’t, you’re not gay, I’m not gay.” He added, though he could so accurately predict what Sherlock would argue. But it would earn him time, time to process his brother’s unexpected confession.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t talk like there’re only limited numbers of sexuality in this world. You are not straight. Neither am I.” Yes, exactly what Mycroft had expected.

“True.” Mycroft admitted, “That’s one more point on both sides.” He wasn’t sure whether figuring out each other’s sexuality could have been counted as a deduction, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say, and he had to say something. In this dangerous situation, silence would only make himself more exposed, and he couldn’t afford that.

Just then, the door of the flat opened as Vincent Welch, Mycroft’s roommate, came back with shopping bags - judging by his pace and the rustling.

“Sherlock, do listen to my words - it is not going to happen.” Mycroft said adamantly, wearing his best stern face, “Leave.”

He left, didn’t say another word, or reply to Vincent’s greeting, or look back, which was a relief to Mycroft because his true emotions were gasping for air and surfacing onto his face. For the next thirty minutes, he could hear nothing but his own pounding heart.

 

Then he was twenty and in Mycroft’s own flat, where he stayed over every couple of weeks since he was sixteen.

Mycroft had pushed him against the wall of the living room, one hand on his hip and the other in his unruly curls, biting and sucking his neck with lips and teeth, leaving lovely marks on his delicious pale skin, appreciating ravenously the incoherent moans, and taking absolute pleasure in holding fast the wriggling lanky figure so preciously sensitive and luscious Mycroft wanted to engrave his name on it.

“Mycroft...Huh...” Sherlock wanted to push him away, but succumbed to the sensation, “Don’t… leave marks… fuck...” He squirmed as Mycroft’s tactful tongue moved to his clavicle. “Too late, brother mine.” Mycroft murmured, hot and wet.

“Mycroft, please.” Sherlock begged. It was too easy, Mycroft thought with a small smile, but he had not the slightest inclination to stop. No, he was going to make his cocky brother breathless and senseless, begging for more, not mercy.

And so he did.

“How many?” Sherlock asked languidly as he recovered from the fiercest climax he had had in months, curling on his right with Mycroft hugging him from behind - his favourite position.

Their body still entwined, Mycroft’s left palm brushed from his brother’s neck down to his chest and said, “Five.”

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise, “I have to go back to uni tomorrow.”

Mycroft chuckled lightly, that was the point, he thought to himself.  “Wear the scarf I gave you Sherlock. And don’t pretend you care about how people think of you.”

Sherlock shrugged, then mumbled, “That was… quite amazing.”

Mycroft placed a kiss on his shoulder, “Thank you. You have no idea what a prize you were when you came.” Sherlock was turning around to protest but Mycroft held him prisoner, “I missed you Sherlock.” He said in a low voice.

Sherlock stopped. “Were you jealous?” he asked.

“Nice deduction.” Mycroft agreed, refreshing their scores, “Five marks, one for each week you were not with me.”

“I was not with you a lot. You didn’t do this every time.” Sherlock clasped their hands together and Mycroft squeezed, “True. But then you wasn’t with Victor Trevor either.”

“He invited me to his house Mycroft.” Sherlock argued. Somehow he felt it important to tell Mycroft it was not he who initiated it, although Mycroft had already known, obviously.

“You stayed for a month.” Mycroft said, jealousy evident in his tone, “And there can’t be nothing between you, which is fine of course, we’ve discussed.” He paused, “But I still...”

“You are different from anyone else.” Sherlock cut in, “You know that.”

Mycroft would have preferred ‘you are the only one I love’, but given his brother’s gauche nature and customary uncandidness when it came to emotions, he did not ask for more. “You are mine Sherlock.”

“As long as you are.” was the reply.

 

Sherlock walked through the corridors of his mind palace, counting incidents, recovering conversations. Memories inundated him and he realised he had never truly deleted them, instead, he had left a code in his mind, which if deciphered led to a pathway, which if followed pointed to all the dots he had dropped in this mansion, and since Mycroft’s kiss and voice had cracked that code, he was now connecting the dots.

Exploring deeper, Sherlock was caught in a dark mist. There was no light or sound. He tried to discern the vague outlines of the furniture but he couldn’t.

 

He was twenty-five, but it was still a blur. He remembered Vincent Welch’s presence, and he saw himself shouting at Mycroft, shoving him, running away from him. He saw tears and blood, cocaine and morphine. But he failed to connect the dots. He gathered he needed time, a long time to sort everything out.

The next day on his flight to Hong Kong, he spent 14 hours examining, recalling and organising all the persons, incidents and emotions he locked away more than five years ago. And finally he remembered, everything he once remembered.

When he got onto the ground, he bought a box of cigarettes, turned on his phone and dialed his brother’s number.

“Mycroft, it’s me.” He said, walking out of the airport, “Can you deduce what I just learned?”

The man on the other side of the phone pondered for a moment, “Are you in China Sherlock?” He asked, his voice betraying his concern and exhaustion.

“Can you?” Sherlock didn’t answer.

Mycroft, sitting in his office in London, looked at the pictures on his desk - one of Sherlock running with abandon, tear marks obscure on his face, one of John staring sightlessly out of the window of 221B, whiskey bottle empty in his hand. Mycroft ached but he couldn’t afford to reveal himself, “Sherlock, if it’s about John...”

“Wrong.” Sherlock declared as he hailed a cab, “We were even Mycroft. But now I’m one up on you.” He announced his first lead after thirty years, but there was no complacency in his voice. “I’m going to lead for two years.” He bit his bottom lip slightly, “Goodbye Mycroft.” He shut his phone down.

It was alright, he told himself, he was now well sorted, and he could archive John and Mycroft away. He didn’t have to know what it was that he felt about John, or how Mycroft had managed to treat him like nothing happened for the last five years, or how he was going to face both of them when he had done his work at hand. He didn’t have to think about all these until he was back in London again.

He took a long breath - time to be Sherlock Holmes, a high-functioning sociopath, the world’s only consulting detective, undercover. He lit up a cigarette, turned up his coat collar and disappeared in the crowd.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more of a transition. Backstories of backstories.
> 
> Yes, in S1E1 Lestrade said he had known Sherlock for five years.  
> Yes, that’s why Sherlock studied natural fibres.  
> Yes, that was the second time Mycroft kissed Sherlock when he was high, which happened 23 months previous to Chapter 1.  
> Yes, blinking rapidly in face of distinctly unexpected emotional-related information is genetic.  
> Yes, staying over at Mycroft’s was Sherlock’s routine activity, as you can see from the previous (Sherlock was 17) and this (20) chapter.  
> Yes, something happened when Sherlock was about 25 that changed everything. I will write about it later.  
> I did say ‘separate but deeply interwoven’.  
> The next two chapters will be more sweet than bitter (or will they), and shorter.  
> Comments are love!  
> Also tell me whether you would like to see more, you know, smut, you know, explicit stuff?


	4. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it came again, the frantic whirring of his own brain. A cross he had to bear. A price he had to pay. He couldn’t think. The deafening noises, the blinding lights and the endless corridors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oodles of thanks to someone-who-hasn't-decided-her-pseudonym, without whom I see no prospect of finishing this work.

JOHN: She has really done her homework, Miss Riley – things that only someone close to Sherlock could know.

MYCROFT: Ah.

JOHN: Have you seen your brother’s address book lately? Two names: yours and mine, and Moriarty didn’t get this stuff from me.

—— The Reichenbach Fall

 

* * *

 

Mycroft was far away.

Mycroft was at university and Sherlock in high school.

He didn’t like school. School was abundant in absurd rules he abrogated, abominable teachers he abased and abusive students he abhorred. He didn’t like school at all.

He missed Mycroft. He missed Mycroft a lot.

Letters were written, puzzles exchanged and issues resolved. Sherlock wrote about his unremitting boredom, his brilliant deductions and new scientific findings. He wrote about noises in his head. Mycroft replied with challenges, criticisms and taught him how to quiet those noises - and they did, the chaos rampant in his head subsided when Sherlock read his brother’s letters, or simply as soon as he saw the quick, slashing handwriting featured so well in that expensive black ink.

Mycroft mentioned the mind palace in his letter and Sherlock started building one. Sorting things out and archiving them away helped, but his brain’s last line of defense against itself also shattered as signals that he had a mind palace to retreat to let his voracious and ferocious mind loose. He lost control of his own mind. And the only one who really understood and could help was far away.

He needed Mycroft, at least before he could meander freely without getting lost in his own mind palace. His brain was marvellous, but like countless curious creatures in nature, it released poisonous chemicals - and Mycroft was his antidote.

It was Sherlock’s turn to go to uni, and Mycroft gave him a phone, a mobile phone, wrapped in a box, sent to his dormitory. He didn’t know how Mycroft could possibly afford it. He didn’t ask.

Opened the box. Turned it on. Pressed the button. Address Book. One name. Mycroft. An eleven-digit number. Dialed the number. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Sherlock?”

It was Mycroft. Familiar voice. His name. His name being called out by the familiar voice. Although the owner was hundreds of miles away.

He didn’t say anything. He hung up.

Mycroft was nearby.

 

No, but Mycroft was still far away.

He lost his mobile phone after three months’ ownership, because unsurprisingly, university was yet again teeming with abusive morons. He was beaten, black and blue. And red, red blood oozing from his wounds. But he called it luck - at least no bone was broken, and most importantly his brain was still intact, still able to dissect the tilting world with surgical precision. He smirked, and his swollen lips ached.

He didn’t tell Mycroft, didn’t call for four weeks. He wanted to replace it using his own money. He thought of stealing, conning, gambling, and even prostituting. But he didn’t.

University was no better. Mycroft was absent. His mind was chaotic. His body, as if answering to his brain, was running a high fever. He felt cold and hot at the same time. Unbearably cold. Intolerably hot.

He went to Mycroft’s on the fourth Thursday night, barely registering the raindrops falling on him.

Mycroft opened the door and immediately pulled Sherlock in, hugging him tight, tighter, without a word. His bespoke suit was dampened but he didn’t seem to give a care, only then did Sherlock noticed the rhythm of the rain lashing at the windowpanes. Sherlock’s knees went weak, as if after supporting his heavy body for so long, they finally consigned the task to the arms where he belonged. Warmth. Coolness. Mycroft. He felt better already.

“Mycroft, it’s too noisy.” He whimpered.

“I know Sherlock. I know. Sorry I was not with you.” Mycroft soothed.

Only on rare occasions would Sherlock use the word to describe his stolid brother but this was one - Mycroft was scared. So they kissed, and kissed, until the affection and the sweetness vanquished all their unreasonable anxieties, until the noises were silenced and they were both reassured, but they kept on kissing, because they found it wasn’t enough - it would never be enough. His brain was hyperactive, but like myriads of matters reacting in combustion, it was liable to suffocation - and Mycroft was his oxygen.

They never broke contact that night. And for the whole weekend, Mycroft walked Sherlock through in his own mind palace, reconstructing unstable structures and revising unsystematic designs, their hands holding tightly together.

On Sunday, Mycroft took him to a mobile phone store and bought him a new one, this time with messaging service.

Sitting next to Sherlock when the chauffeur drove them back to university, Mycroft took out his own phone and hit a speed dial.

“My number.” Mycroft said as Sherlock’s phone rang, “You might want to save it.”

Sherlock shrugged and rejected the call, “I can memorise.” he said, “I don’t have to.”

“Do you want to try the text messaging then?”

“You text me.” Sherlock demanded, and Mycroft grinned.

When Sherlock got back to his dormitory, his new phone buzzed.

One new message. Read. From a familiar eleven-digit number.

I love you Sherlock. M

He smiled. Mycroft was nearby.

 

Sherlock liked to text. He couldn’t call at any time but he could always text.

The three guys who beat me made it to your file I presume. They never dare to be within ten meters from me. S

Natural conclusion. They damaged my property and I am not a lenient man. M

And what exactly is your property? S

The phone. And you. M

Sherlock felt safe.

 

But it came again, the frantic whirring of his own brain. A cross he had to bear. A price he had to pay. He couldn’t think. The deafening noises, the blinding lights and the endless corridors. Find a sanctum. Find the sanctum. Where was it? Where did he build it? He got lost in his mind palace again.

He went to Hampstead Cemetery. The leaning tomb. His bolt hole. He needed space and peace. Nobody was around, but the silence exacerbated the noises in his head, making them even louder.

The world was collapsing and he had difficulty breathing. He couldn’t go through this alone. He needed Mycroft, but he couldn’t call - his voice would be heard and he might be caught, plus Mycroft was having a critical meeting at the moment. He wouldn’t be able to answer for the next half an hour.

He took out his phone and dialed the eleven digits. Save. Name. Mycroft. OK. New message. To. Mycroft.

Find me Mycroft. S

Sent. He drew his knees up and wrapped both of his arms around them, burying his head down, waiting. How was he going to survive the next thirty minutes? Another thirty minutes and he could be with Mycroft. How? He paced back and forth in his mind. Think about Mycroft. Yes. Think about Mycroft. Find the mansion he built for the two of them. Don’t panick. Find it.

The phone made a chime. How could it be? Only one minute had lapsed.

There was a small envelope icon on the screen, and a name beside it - Mycroft.

He looked at the name, the familiar combination of letters, the name he had whispered so many times on so many occasions, and would never ever see enough of. Mycroft. Yes this was why he saved it, he realised. There was an unspeakable but significant difference between the eleven-digit number and his brother’s name. He felt secure seeing the name, knowing instantaneously that it was the man he loved so dearly, and needed so badly, the man who would always find him when he was lost, who would always be there for him. Numbers were meaningless and cold. Mycroft was important and warm, and at this moment, everything.

He knew at that point that no matter how many phones he was going to own, or how well he could remember his brother’s number, he would always put Mycroft’s name in his address book, he would always want to.

Read.

On my way. M

The noises relented, gravity returned and reasons revived, and he felt calm. His brain was refractory, but like legions of lesions he had borne in the last nineteen years, it was taken good care of by Mycroft, and he read the text again, serene and safe - Mycroft was nearby.

 

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery was mentioned in S3E3 by Mycroft as one of Sherlock’s bolt holes.  
> SMS text messaging service was invented in 1992 and first commercialised in 1994, just about when Sherlock went to university. (Like anyone ever cared.)  
> Getting lost in his own mind palace was mentioned in Chapter 3 and Mycroft’s file in Chapter 2. (Seriously, does anyone really care...)


	5. The British Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In fact, being the heart of the British government works for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating goes Explicit. We are getting to the core. And many thanks to psycho1122 who cheers me up constantly.

JOHN: You’ve got ID for Baskerville. How?

SHERLOCK: It’s not specific to this place. It’s my brother’s. Access all areas. I, um ... acquired it ages ago, just in case.

JOHN: Mycroft’s name literally opens doors!

SHERLOCK: I’ve told you – he practically is the British government.

—— The Hounds of Baskerville

 

* * *

 

Mug. Pillow. Toothbrush. Fridge. Two of each.

Lube. Safety goggles. Extinguisher. Maybe three.

Test tube. Cover slip. Condom. Twelve for now. Might last a week.

Wardrobe. Bathroom. Bedroom. One was enough.

Mycroft went through the list in his mind quickly while reading the headlines of the Guardian he skipped this morning - seemed like everything was ready.

By 'one was enough', Mycroft really meant that the spare wardrobe could be used as a laboratory equipment cabinet, the extra bathroom an autopsy chamber and the guest bedroom Sherlock's waste dump.

All set. For Sherlock's moving-in the next day. Summer breaks were bliss. He could have Sherlock to his own for a whole month.

Regrettably, he could not monopolise Sherlock’s time - he had to work. He had told himself repeatedly not to be too greedy, but even the heavenly thought of Sherlock falling asleep and waking up every day in his arms failed to relent the bitterness of having to stay in his office eight hours a day, knowing his little brother was alone at home waiting for him, wearing only a dressing gown, and the sight of his perfect body revealed slowly as Sherlock untied the belt and walked towards him with a dark and salacious smile was just…

Mycroft was half-hard. Beyond redemption, he thought to himself. Much as it pained him, he checked this train of thought, turning to another page and registering at the back of his mind that another bronze medal had been won at the Atlanta Olympics - he was going to spend the whole weekend with Sherlock and he was definitely not going to touch himself now.

He should be grateful, really, for he had to work fourteen hours a day last summer.

When Mycroft first got himself into the British government at the age of twenty-two, working brainlessly eight hours a day, he handled unimportant documents, arranged trivial meetings and transcribed regular letters. But it was only for three months. Three months, that was all it took him to outperform his duty and overshadow his superiors. By the end of his first year, he had been working brainlessly for fourteen hours a day. By the end of the third, ten hours with half of his brain power. And now, he had gone back to eight hours but been utilising eighty percent of his brain.

Mycroft could still remember last summer when he failed to come back home before midnight, Sherlock set classified documents on fire out of boredom after using them to test the causticity of London’s industrial effluents he collected from god-knows-where.

Needless to say, Sherlock was never fond of Mycroft’s job, even though they both knew Mycroft was born to be a politician, assuming politician was a proper word to describe his occupation.

First of all he was polite, always so genteel and decorous, unlike some fractious and impertinent nonconformists who would not even bother to wear their pants in Buckingham Palace.

Second of all he was diplomatic, invariably tactful and judicious with becoming modesty, much dissimilar to some egocentric and capricious sociopaths who would break ranks and invite himself everywhere, be it private houses or military bases.

Third of all he was undemonstrative, ever reticent and reserved even if some goldfish had audaciously leaped out of the tank - he would still smile while watch it struggle and die, far from some cocksure and arrogant show-offs who would happily half-kill himself just to prove he was smart and never hold back his insults.

There were a lot of other reasons of course, but last (maybe not least) of all he was indolent, habitually given more to cerebral pursuits than to sporting activities, distinctly different from some energetic and gingery dynamos who would run amok in London even if he hadn’t been eating for three days.

So was it such a surprise that he, as everyone except Sherlock hoped, became a politician and the aforementioned nonconformist, sociopath, show-off and dynamo became a pirate?

Except that technically Mycroft wasn’t a politician - he had always known that he was going to be _the_ British government. Except that Sherlock didn’t become a pirate - he renounced this ‘whim’ as Mycroft so kindly put it when, much to his disappointment but not surprise, Mycroft successfully entered the British government after graduation, because originally his piratical adventure was planned to be accompanied by his brother who should have been his first officer instead of a government official.

“Why would you ever care about the general election? It’s utterly boring!” was Sherlock’s usual attitude, and “Which government are you bringing down this time?” would be his opening line every time he wanted to play deductions or do experiments while Mycroft was writing letters, or answering phone calls. However, “Let them have wars, Mycroft. I don’t care. Come.” was Mycroft’s favourite, because after an apparent resigning sigh he would soon be over - or sometimes under - Sherlock, international conflicts be damned, no, everything except Sherlock be damned.

Mycroft caught his thoughts veering off in dangerous directions and he switched tracks immediately. Since when had his every thought led to Sherlock? Well, since long ago. He self commented. Standing up, he was about to organise his files and hide them away when his phone rang.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Let it be Sherlock.

But it was Vincent. Mycroft had a bad feeling.

“Good evening Vincent.” Mycroft said into the phone, not revealing any of his impatience, “What’s happened?”

“Evening Mycroft. Paul just came and unfortunately we have to revise the terms, no, actually we have to rewrite them.”

Sighing, Mycroft imagined an inauspicious Monday, “I’ll come early on Monday.”

“These terms need to be ready by next Wednesday, Mycroft.” Vincent sounded tired, “The divorce has to be finalised before September. I’m afraid we have to work the whole weekend.”

Mycroft wanted to kill - everything he had planned for their weekend had now been announced futile and he knew the disappointment was not only on his side. He hung up the phone then reluctantly dialed Sherlock’s number, not really knowing what he should say.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock picked up.

“Sherlock... What are you doing?” Mycroft asked hesitantly, still looking for the right word. But it was Sherlock, and he knew immediately. “What’s wrong?” He asked, with concern.

Mycroft sighed. “Sorry Sherlock. But I… I have to work...” He rubbed his nose, “late... this weekend, and until next Wednesday I’m afraid.”

There was a silence, then Sherlock asked, “Will you make it up to me?”

“By all means.”

“Then it’s fine Mycroft.” Sherlock said, “But I’ll still come tomorrow.”

Mycroft relaxed at the smile he sensed in his voice, “Of course. I’ve already prepared everything.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Everything you’ll need is ready.” Mycroft looked around his flat and grinned, “Including three fire extinguishers.”

Sherlock huffed, “I have to go Mycroft. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“It can be the day after tomorrow if I… fail to come home before midnight.” He said apologetically, realising he really did not have much time to hide his files away.

“It’ll be tomorrow Mycroft. And your documents are safe.” There was a puckish delight in his tone which warmed Mycroft’s heart in a strange way. “Anyway I have three extinguishers.”

They both chuckled.

 

Mycroft was dreaming about Sherlock again. He knew he was dreaming but he refused to wake up. Sherlock was wearing a dressing gown, a white one, Mycroft’s dressing gown. He was standing in front of the bed, gazing at him, his face lit up by the moonlight, so serene and beautiful.

Mycroft summoned him with a lick of his lip. Sherlock beamed, untied the belt gracefully as he climbed onto the bed and over Mycroft. Oh his perfect lean body, ethereal and divine. _So delicious_. Every new revelation of his alabaster skin shot sacred radiance into Mycroft's heart and lightened up his world.

Moments later they were only inches apart, with Sherlock on his hands and knees over Mycroft. Sherlock smelt of shampoo, wet and fragrant, and familiar. Mycroft fondled his adorable wet curls and the next second they were kissing. He had been pining for this for a month, the sensation, the touch, the taste, Sherlock. Massaging their tongues together, Mycroft clamped his arms across Sherlock’s back, pulling him closer and thrusting in deeper. Sherlock’s tongue was incredibly warm and soft, and tasted like mint. He didn’t want to wake up. He was _drunk_ on Sherlock’s body scent, now mixed with the fragrance of softener, the aroma of shampoo and the smell of mint toothpaste. He was drugged, intoxicated, in ecstasy.

He was, but unfortunately he was also a Holmes.

White dressing gown, familiar shampoo, mint toothpaste… “Sherlock?” He pulled away, looking at his little brother incredulously.

“I’m real Mycroft.” Sherlock said in a low voice, “I’m here.”

Mycroft sat up, completely awake, “What...”

“I said tomorrow.” Sherlock interrupted with a smile, “It’s already tomorrow.” He went back to kissing his brother, who kissed him back half-heartedly in disbelief.

Mycroft couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock had sneaked in his flat, searched his wardrobe and even taken a shower without waking him up. What if it hadn’t been Sherlock? What if it had been someone dangerous?

Sherlock broke apart, “Stop thinking.” he chided affectionately, “I’m glad you didn’t wake up.” He took off the dressing gown and tucked himself into the duvet, slotting himself in Mycroft’s arms facing him, and threw a leg over his.

“I should have been more vigilant.” Mycroft rallied himself and kissed Sherlock’s lips, running his hand down his spine possessively, “It could have been someone who wanted to steal you away from me.”

Sherlock’s fingers lingered about Mycroft’s hip, very much close to his boxers, teasing him, “I have been very careful not to make a sound. But you must have heard the water, yet you didn’t wake up.” Mycroft’s hand was mirroring his and they could both feel how hard they were. “Because it’s just so natural. Your subconscious knew it was me and you felt safe.” Sherlock’s hand moved to the front, gently pulled Mycroft’s prick out and stroked with tenderness.

Mycroft moaned and pulled down his boxers with one hand hastily, then pressed their bare cocks together. _God, the sensation of it._ He shivered.

Sherlock’s breath quickened slightly and his pupils dilated, “Now, I’ve given you an extra night.” he said darkly, wrapping his hand around both of their cocks and stroking just a little bit faster, “Make it up to me.” He nibbled Mycroft’s ear and whispered into it.

Mycroft obliged.  

 

"So what is it that distracts you from me?" Sherlock asked in a lazy tone after two condoms had been written out in the inventory list.

"Princess of Wales." Mycroft answered, then sighed.

"Ah, interesting."

"You have no idea who she is."

"No." His hand stroked along Mycroft's chins, "So what has she done?"

"Why would you care?" Mycroft kissed his fingertips as they caressed his lips.

Sherlock raised his eyes, "Because if she's boring Mycroft, if you feel bored, you can go with me and be my first officer."

Mycroft chuckled, "I thought you have long given up this thought."

Sherlock tipped his head a bit and said, "Not if you are coming with me." He sighed, "Politics is extremely dull. Think it through. It's never too late."

Mycroft smiled, "You know, despite all your complaints and venoms, I'm relieved that I can keep you at bay."

Sherlock pouted but beamed in reply, "Literally?"

"Both." Mycroft murmured, slotting his arm under Sherlock's neck, who cuddled him closer.

"Catch some sleep Mycroft, you've only got two hours.”

Mycroft kissed his forehead, "Good night."

 

But Mycroft only slept for one hour. It was not his fault. It was not Sherlock's fault either. You could not blame a twenty-year-old who had finally found his lover's arms after a one-month separation for waking up at six in the morning with a raging hard on, nor could you scold him for wrapping his mouth around said lover's erect cock, sucking in earnest until he woke up. No, you could not blame him. You kissed him hard and said you loved him and did unspeakable things to him for an hour until you really had to get up, because Her Majesty would have a headache if you didn't.

Sherlock, still lying on bed with traces of fresh come on his stomach, watched his brother dressing himself in expensive shirts and suits in delight.

“Are you working with Vincent Welch today?” He asked.

Mycroft nodded, adjusting his tie to the mirror, “Yes. He’s my colleague Sherlock. I know you don’t like him but he really does no harm.” He turned around.

Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft bent down and kissed him, "Don't wait up. I might be late."

Sherlock grinned, ran his hand through his hair languidly and yawned, "Morning Mycroft."

 

Government was a dangerous place where one needed to be delicate and discreet, because behind all those tedious work and verbose documents lay the most intricate networks and webs in which if one couldn’t figure out and weave in response, one would be enmeshed and trapped. But as always, he had his way. Ticklish as it might be, it was hardly a struggle for a man like him but still, he had to go beyond his already adequate prudery, and be extremely careful not to disturb the queen when she was having a nice little cat nap, or, you know, irritate Princess of Wales when she was in such a busy state - neither of them was an easy task.

He should have known going back home before midnight was a luxury.

When Mycroft opened the door at 2AM on Sunday, Sherlock was in the kitchen at his microscope, and he offered him tea he ‘unintentionally’ made when he tried to extract pigments from Darjeeling tea leaves.

3AM on Monday, he gave him toasts he ‘accidentally’ baked by his blowtorch.

On Tuesday, Mycroft called to tell him he would have to work all night and Sherlock effervesced over the news, “Great Mycroft! I have to dip nitrate solution into triethanolamine every fifteen minutes until dawn. I’ve made a mistake earlier. Don’t come back or my experiment will be ruined.”

Finally, 6PM on Wednesday, Mycroft opened the door of his flat and Sherlock’s voice greeted him from bathroom, “I’m in the bathroom Mycroft. Come and join me.”

Five minutes later, Mycroft was behind Sherlock in the bathtub, wrapping his arms around his brother’s chest, fingers ghosting over his skin with keen affection.

“It’s just the right temperature.” He spoke softly into Sherlock’s neck, nibbling his shoulder gently, his exhaustion melting in the hot water and Sherlock’s aroma, along with the icy face he had been wearing for the past five days in office.

Sherlock rubbed Mycroft’s thighs slowly, “You’re lucky. You picked the right time to come home.”

Mycroft smiled briefly, “I am. I picked the right one to love.” He licked up Sherlock’s neck, who tipped his head to the side, encouraging him, “I know you prepared it for me. I know you made tea and toasts for me. I know you didn’t want me to feel sorry.” His tongue licked along the curve of Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock.”

The last word he purred was the mantra he chanted constantly to keep himself functioning when fatigue and sometimes fear no one saw or even knew about started to grow deep inside him - no one but Sherlock.

Sherlock knew. He knew and he rocked slowly, soothing the man so powerful and vulnerable at the same time, understanding that he himself was the reason for both his strength and weakness. “What were the other choices?” He asked gently, turning his head around a bit, and Mycroft’s tongue slipped into his ear.

“What choices?” Mycroft murmured into it, hot wet breath tickling his nerve endings.

“You said you picked me. Who else… hah... were there?” Sherlock’s hands clenched as Mycroft drew in a slow breath against his ear, his hard cock twitching.

Mycroft dropped his right hand down and started stroking his brother’s prick, slowly and tactfully. His left arm was still embracing him tightly but his fingertips were toying with Sherlock’s right nipple, and he whispered in a low voice, “There was never anyone else. There will never be. Only you Sherlock. You and only you.”

Sherlock turned around and kissed him fiercely, swirling and thrusting his tongue, dedicating himself to the man who just admitted he was the world to him, until Mycroft couldn’t wait any longer and slipped two fingers into his brother’s cleft, making him breaking apart to let out a low moan.

“Mycroft…” He begged breathlessly, clenching his arse cheeks, which Mycroft took as a signal for more, so he curled his fingers forward slightly. Sherlock mumbled a protest when Mycroft’s right hand left his cock, but that short-lived protest turned into a luscious moan of joy when he started stroking again, with lotion in his palm. Sherlock relaxed his muscles, then wriggled, “Mycroft, the water is… um… coming in.”

“I don’t think you have any attention to spare for such unimportant things.” His voice was dripping with sex, and it made Sherlock tremble. Sucking Sherlock’s neck, his right hand quickened, and he inserted another finger into his brother’s arse, fucking him ardently. Sherlock was making noises but he couldn’t form any coherent words. He rasped “stop”, “don’t”, “fuck”, “come”, “yes”, “there” and “Mycroft”.

It wasn’t long before white, dense comes spurted into his hand and dissolved in water. Oh the wanton noises Sherlock made, the feel of his come, and the erotic smell of sex… Mycroft came without touch.

They were both panting in the haze when Mycroft spoke first, “I missed you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, “I know.”

They cuddled together without a word for a long time. Their hearts pounded synchronically, speaking the unspoken words and promising the unpromised oaths. The whole world had reduced to the confined room in the bathtub, with white vapour, fragrant odour and their body warmth. They formed a binary system, spinning around each other independent of any other forces. They didn’t need any colours because they were all the colours the other needed. They didn’t need any sounds because silence was their words of love. They didn’t need any angels or demons because they were the virtues and sins of each other. The feel of Mycroft’s arms around him, the pace of his breath and the rhythm of his heartbeat constructed the entire world of Sherlock. And Sherlock, had long been Mycroft’s whole world.

 

That summer was Sherlock and Princess for Mycroft. And for Sherlock it was Mycroft and experiments. When the divorce was eventually finalised at the end of August, Sherlock had to leave for uni. They went out for dinner in an exquisite French restaurant on their last evening, Mycroft dressed in his usual three-piece and Sherlock in the new black suit Mycroft just bought for him.

“Congratulations Mycroft. I see you’ve been promoted again.” Sherlock said, his handsome face lit with warm lights and genuine happiness.

“Thank you.” Mycroft replied, drowning in the lake of his fathomless eyes, “I thought you would have been disparaging about it.”

Sherlock shrugged and smiled in a way that melted his heart. It was an effort to suppress the impulse to touch that perfect lips and just kiss him and claim him right here and now. But suppressed it he did - which didn’t mean he had the willpower to stop himself fixing his eyes lustfully at them. “Oh god you’re gorgeous.” Mycroft whispered without realising it.

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s smile became even more enthralling, taking his breath away, “Mycroft, you know one day you are going to be _the_ British government.” he said, “I know you are.”

Mycroft didn’t expect this. He looked down to his glass and fingered it, “You know, sometimes I do think of giving these all up.” He said, not looking at Sherlock, “The government is a dangerous place, Sherlock. A small mistake would easily take everything away from you.”

“We both know you can handle it.” Sherlock answered reassuringly but Mycroft was still looking downwards. “If you can’t do it, I don’t know anyone else who can.” He added.

Mycroft gave a brief smile and sighed, then he looked up, “I don’t worry about me. It’s just… If it is known what you are to me...  even the fact that you are my only brother...” He trailed off, swallowed, then continued, “Even the thought of what danger I can bring to you is unbearable. And it is only going to be worse as my career advances.” _I don’t want to lose you. I’m afraid of losing you. Please Sherlock, be safe_. These were all the words he failed to say.

Sherlock bored into him with his bluegreen eyes, seeing all those unspoken love, and after a while he spoke up, “We can make it Mycroft. You’re not on your own.” He paused, then said in a lower voice, “You have me. And we can do it together.” He grinned. Mycroft’s face lightened up as the words struck a responsive chord in his heart - it was so very rare for his brother to say such emotional words and he would be an arrant idiot if he didn’t take them.

He opened his mouth but Sherlock continued, “Although I’m not very fond of the idea, it doesn’t sound too bad.” he said, his charming smile widening,  “In fact, being the heart of the British government works for me.” He finished in a delightful tone and didn’t give Mycroft a chance to respond, which was just as well because the prospective British government was so touched and dazzled that the usual orator was at loss for words.

“To Princess of Wales.” Sherlock raised his glass.

Mycroft beamed, “To Princess of Wales.”

 

To Princess of Wales indeed, Mycroft’s career owed. One year later, the accident happened. Mycroft was summoned to Paris to investigate the incident, with the promise of further promotion in pocket.

His indolent nature cringed at his trip but he had no choice. Legwork. He sighed to himself.

He arrived in Paris on September 1st and settled at Hotel Ritz Paris. He was going to go to the tunnel first thing in the morning. Not wanting to move, Mycroft lied on his bed after a cool shower and turned on the television, switching channels aimlessly, thinking about Sherlock and their conversation earlier.

Sherlock had graduated. No doubt he had not the slightest inclination to find a job, which was fine from Mycroft’s perspective - he knew him too well to have ever expected him to. Sherlock had income from a lot of different sources, even Mycroft couldn’t figure out how he managed to live like the wanderer he was yet still be able to pay the rent of his own flat truth be told. Of course he worried about him constantly, but he knew better than to smother him.

His phone chimed at 6 o’clock the next morning when he had just woken up. He reached for it reluctantly without opening his eyes, unseeingly pressed the button to open the text message, and waited in dark for another minute. He opened his eyes, then he _jumped_.

_It was not an accident. S_

Deductions ran quickly in Mycroft’s mind like a cascade, then he got off the bed and rushed to his door, drew in a deep breath before opening it.

“Bonjour, mon frere.”

“Sherlock?” Even though he had known, even though he was Mycroft Holmes, he was still awash in disbelief and admittedly, shock, when he saw the apparition of a dark-haired housemaid in blouse and skirt with high cheekbones and long legs in front of him. The hemline was just above the knees he noted.

“Room service.” She said, with a sweet smile and an intact French accent.

Mycroft was bewildered to temporary immobility.

“Rude, mister. Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” She stepped forward and raised a hand to stroke his face, sending electric racing down his spine and straight to his cock. He hastily stepped back and Sherlock followed him in.

Once the door clicked close, Mycroft pushed Sherlock against it and kissed him, his hand sliding to his hips at the waist of the skirt. “What are you doing here Sherlock?” He husked, grinding his butt.

Sherlock smiled filthily, “Fuck me first and I’ll tell you.” He started to undo his skirt but was immediately stopped by Mycroft. “Leave it on.” He cooed, unbuttoning his blouse and gradually guiding him to bed.

“I didn’t know you get off on this. Or I would have tried much earlier.” Sherlock whimpered.

“God Sherlock you didn’t know...” Mycroft turned Sherlock around to face the floor mirror, splaying his arms across his chest and murmured, “Look at you. You are stunning.” He sucked his neck skin into the mouth with tenderness and Sherlock blushed. “Especially here.” Mycroft breathed, his right hand moving down to cup the conspicuous bulge, and Sherlock moaned softly. “What an erotic sight. A bulge in a skirt.” Mycroft unzipped the skirt and pulled out the crotch, leaving the head just above the waist and fondled it. “You looked edible.”

Sherlock shuddered, “Fuck me Mycroft.” he demanded.

“Yes, my lady.” Mycroft shoved his hand into the skirt.

 

An hour later, they were both naked in bed, cuddling together.

“So, what are you doing here?” Mycroft asked.

“To have sex with you obviously.” Sherlock answered.

“You know I have to work.”

“I know you don’t want to.”

“But I have to.”

“That’s why I did it for you.” Sherlock looked smug, “So that you can have time to have sex with me. Let’s treat this as a holiday.”

The idea of having a (sex) holiday with Sherlock in Paris at this time of the year when summer hadn’t faded but tourists had mostly dispersed began to ramify in Mycroft’s head, but he had a more important question to ask, “You did it?”

“It was easy. It wasn’t a pure accident but it wasn’t deliberately planned either.” Sherlock turned to face his brother, “I’ve been to the tunnel and seen the bodies. All I need now is one or two interrogations to verify my suppositions.”

“You’ve seen the bodies. How?” Mycroft had to admit he was impressed - this was a very special case, hypersensitive, even Sherlock couldn’t have finagled his way into the morgue easily.

Sherlock laughed, “You don’t think I dressed like that just to have sex with you?”

“You seduced the whole staff at the morgue?”

“You don’t have to seduce all of them if you can drug some and incapacitate some others.” Sherlock said in a slightly arched tone, “For god’s sake Mycroft. All of them. Do you have any idea how many there were? Even an experienced whore would need the whole night to do that.”

Hot jealousy coiled in Mycroft’s stomach, and his arm around his brother’s chest tightened, “How far did you go?” he asked, gritting his teeth.

Sherlock nudged him gently, “Relax. I didn’t have sex with them. You know I couldn’t even flirt vocally, my voice would have betrayed me. I just needed five minutes in the morgue. Once I got in, the rest was a piece of cake.” He said with ease, and a hint of pride.

“Vocally... How on earth _did_ you flirt?” Mycroft hooked their legs together possessively.

Sherlock chortled, “Come on Mycroft. You didn’t even ask what I did with Victor.”

True. Mycroft wouldn’t try to control him, but he still couldn’t let go, “Do you have these people’s names?”

“Forget about your file Mycroft, I’m already twenty-one. Actually I believe one of them was your subordinate.” He said in a playful tone, “He’s quite handsome. And he has a rather big cock.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft was about to jump out of bed and kill that man when Sherlock hugged and kissed him, “Come back, I was kidding.” They both laughed for a good minute.

“You remember we talked about what I’m going to do after graduation?” Sherlock asked out of blue but didn’t wait for an answer - of course Mycroft would remember, “I’ve been thinking I can work with you.”

“Work with me?” Mycroft echoed.

Sherlock nodded, “Of course politics was absolutely and unbelievably dreary and insipid, nothing more than a bad comedy and can't remotely be compared to being a pirate.”

Mycroft raised a brow and quipped, "Thank you." Sherlock ignored him and continued, "But there are murders and cases.You know it’s not new to me. There’s been a feeling ever since Carl Powers that I like solving murders. No, actually long before that. Just that I didn’t realise crimes were what I was looking for. And I’ve been doing some detective work. That’s how I pay for my rent.” He said proudly.

Mycroft contemplated on it for a while. He had known that Sherlock was genius in deductions ever since he was twelve, and that his little brother was attracted to mysteries and crimes, even fed on them. He once worried which side of the crime his brother would choose but thankfully, and shamefully to some extent, the world wouldn’t see another master criminal mind with the same surname as H. H. Holmes.

It could work, he thought. His own work was teeming with curious cases by which Sherlock was intrigued and would more than happy to do the legwork for him. Meanwhile, Sherlock would need some prerogative from the government in pursuing this course, and most importantly, protection from Mycroft.

“It can be dangerous.” He warned.

“But I would love it. And I want to help you.” Sherlock blushed darkly at the words, “And I want to help myself in becoming the heart of the British government.”

“Seems like it’s for our bilateral benefits.” Mycroft smiled.

“Oh don’t pull out your political jargon.” Sherlock laughed happily, his eyes glowing in the morning light “So it’s a deal then?”

“Deal, my little detective.” Mycroft kissed his forehead, basking in his brother’s angelic joy.

Sherlock grimaced at the diminutive, but his exultation was barely suppressed. “I will be a consulting detective.” he declared.

 

And a consulting detective he became.

They worked well together, though secretly, like how they loved. Sherlock finally found a medicine other than Mycroft that quieted the noises in his head, and Mycroft was promoted faster than ever. They formed a covert alliance, watching each other’s back and catching each other when they fell. They solved cases in dark and kissed in dark. Sherlock was running over London and Mycroft taking over the world. Until the name of Sherlock Holmes was widespread in many black alleys of London. Until the tag of Mycroft Holmes equaled the ultra-priority. They spinned around each other, completed and consummated each other. Until Mycroft finally became the British government and Sherlock, Sherlock was found unconscious under a maple tree, red leaves covering his emaciated body, the same garish red as the blood shedding from the gashes all over his body, the same blood oozing out inside Mycroft, when the heart of the British government broke.

He finally had the ultimate power to protect the man who formed his world, the power he did not give up pursuing for this reason and this reason only. But no matter how far his arms could reach they could not hold anything, because the only one who fitted so well, the only one who belonged to his arms, was gone for good. His reason, his heart, his world. Shattered.

 

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I've been making Mylock gifs. Welcome to check out[ my tumblr.](http://monorunner.tumblr.com/post/87972303221/he-did-it-to-mycroft-too)


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